


Evening the Score

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [26]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Demons, Hell, M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Violence, demon ron speirs, expressions of rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: Ron Speirs has dragged himself out of Hell and he's a bit...miffed.





	Evening the Score

**Author's Note:**

> I really had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you all enjoy. On a side note, I know I've been posting very regularly, but this is your heads up that in a week, I'm going to be out of town for work for most of July, so the updates are likely to slow or stop during that time (though I hope to get another couple chapters up before I leave.) This story is by no means close to an end, and I will resume my updates when I return, but sometimes real life happens, and I will have to focus on that.

Ron slammed into the ground, dust and bits of rock spitting up around him—he breathed scorching, putrid air into his lungs and it singed. He closed his eyes, orienting himself for a moment, head pounding. He reached out, fingers digging into the chipped rock, and he pushed himself up, crawling out of the miniature crater he’d created. He gazed up into darkness and swirling flame, the very air catching fire spontaneously. _Hell._

“Speirs,” a voice snarked from Ron’s left, and he turned to fix his eyes on Cobb, who lounged against one of the impossible, sheer cliffs, his eyes pitch-black, a cup of something clutched casually in his hand. “Look who’s back. Thought you were too good for us down here.”

Ron eyed him for a moment before dismissing him, pulling himself to his feet to get his bearings. At one point in Ron’s unimaginably long existence, he’d ruled his own little corner of Hell, but that had been a long time ago, and he wasn’t as familiar with the geography as he used to be. “I am,” Speirs said, deciding to head toward the darkness, where he knew fire gave way to ice. A different kind of torment.

“Leaving so soon?” Cobb called, pushing away from the wall. “You’re a hard demon to find, and I know Dike will want a word with you.”

Ron rolled his eyes but didn’t bother slowing his stride. “Dike can go fuck himself, and so can you.”

“It’s going to be like that, is it, Speirs? Are you sure you want to make that choice?”

“Absolutely.” The air was already beginning to grow colder in his chest.

“It might make a demon curious,” Cobb shouted, “what you have to get back to so soon!”

At that, Ron finally did stop, his shoulders stiffening. “Curious?” He turned on his heel so that he could peer across the gloom at Cobb. “Wonder all you want, you little piss ant. You and I aren’t the same kind of demon. Good luck finding a way out.”

“Dike won’t be happy you left this way.”

Ron rolled his shoulders, loosening them. He turned back toward his goal. “What a shame.”

* * *

Ron stared up at the sheer cliff. He _hated_ this part. Still, it was the fastest way, and he had places to be, things to do. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and dug them into the cliff, making a handhold for himself.

_Days_ passed. Ron cursed, his fingers burning against the fiery brimstone cliff as he dug them into the stone again and again and _again._ He’d been scaling for a small eternity, it seemed. And while he climbed, he had plenty of time to _think._

_He’d made a mistake._

In the countless millennia that Ron had traversed the realms, he’d held many positions, fulfilled many roles. He’d commanded legions. He’d ruled his own province. He’d helped orchestrate the ruination of kingdoms. But… _Earth_ had always been his favorite.

That was where the real action was, the thing that never failed to interest Ron. He’d grown tired of war, grown tired of commanding. But he’d never grown tired of the constant will-they, won’t-they , tug-of-war of souls that played out on Earth each day. Demons were boring. _Humans_ were interesting.

Some of the higher-ups had been upset by his decision to leave Hell and go top-side, but there was very little they could do about it aside from destroying him entirely, and they wouldn’t do that, because despite Ron’s…faults, he was a useful tool, and everyone knew it. And as for the rank and file like Cobb—well, Ron didn’t care at all what they thought. They were worms, the lowest kind of demon. The kind that were tasked with temptation and making deals. They hunted souls. And they had no form of their own—they had to _possess humans_ like the commoners they were. He didn’t have time for them, and never really had. Dike was putting on airs if he thought Ron owed him a damn thing. Peons. 

Ron had been conducting his own affairs on Earth for centuries now. He enjoyed what he did. The role of assassin came naturally to him, and it allowed him the freedom to travel at a whim, to take the contracts that he wanted, and to do whatever else he pleased in the meantime. He’d always kept an ear to the underground, always took a special interest in the rare contracts—not politicians or businessmen or the like—they were always the same. But the hunters. The witches. _They_ meddled in things beyond themselves for so many different reasons, and _they_ interested Ron.

_But he’d made a mistake this time. A couple, really._

He was never supposed to get close to a mark. Definitely wasn’t supposed to fall in love with one. That had been his first mistake. His second had been underestimating Dick Winters. Ron cursed as he heaved himself up the sheer stone face to the next level of Hell. _Only about four more to go._

Exorcisms were the worst. Ron had only ever been exorcised three times in his existence—and that was saying something. He had a much better record than most demons. But they were a real bitch when they happened. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed Winters to get the drop on him. When he’d heard those heavy words, he’d known he was about to take a fast trip back to Hell, but he’d hoped he could at least take the vampire with him. _No such luck._ Winters chanted faster than Ron had anticipated—and with quite a bit of ferocity, as well. Ron had _felt_ those words, had felt the animosity behind them as they’d carved into his being and torn him asunder. It was a unique feeling—having your very being disintegrated, dusted, and then shoved forcefully through dimensions, only to reassemble painfully at the bottom of the Pit. He wouldn’t recommend it, and next time, he promised himself, he’d be lighter on his feet.

Ron paused in his climb, cocked his head, considering. He _could_ simply eliminate Winters, but he had a feeling Carwood would be upset about that, and upsetting Carwood was not Ron’s aim. Speaking of which…. Ron stretched his arm as far as he could reach and pressed his fingers into the burning stone, heaving himself upward. He’d really messed up. He’d had _days_ to replay that night—Carwood’s screams, his devastated sobs, the look of confusion, hurt, and utter betrayal on his face. _Yeah._ Ron had a lot of explaining to do when he made it back topside. That is… _if_ Carwood allowed him to explain.

First of all, that… _encounter_ never should have happened. Ron was embarrassed to admit it (it was an all-time career low) but it had been an accident running into Carwood and the others outside of the bar that night. Ron had been wandering, anxious, after Carwood’s texts earlier in the day. He’d known the hunters had left the house, and he’d tracked them to the bar, but it had been imperative that he stay out of sight. So, he’d been lurking about a block away, with eyes on the Jeep, waiting until they decided to head back to the house, or at least do something interesting. Then he’d sensed Carwood moving, and he’d decided to make his way toward the car. He hadn’t meant to bump right into them. And then, when he had, he’d thought to simply play it off as a chance meeting—just out for a nightly stroll before he turned in the for night, and _wow, nice bumping into you, Carwood, would you like to have a drink with me?_ But then. _Then_. That goddamn vampire had known what he was, eyes widening, hackles rising, and he’d _announced it._ What was Ron supposed to do, after that? Carwood wasn’t stupid enough to brush away a declaration like that without investigating. And Dick Winters…well, _obviously_ he was an “exorcize first, chat later” kind of guy. At least when that vampire was involved. 

And speaking of the vampire… Ron had had a lot of time lately to think about him, too. Ron was demon enough to admit that maybe he’d focused too much attention on the undead bloodsucker. That maybe, even when the truth about himself was revealed so rudely, Ron shouldn’t have gone straight for the creature (even though Ron really did want to kill him—oh yes, Ron wanted to take him out, burn his being out of existence, plunge his withered soul straight into the Pit). _Maybe he should have strategized differently_. But what was he supposed to do?! That… _thing_ had announced what Ron was to Carwood! And…yeah, alright, maybe Ron had felt a bit of panic, when he’d seen the look on Carwood’s face. _He’d panicked,_ okay? He’d worried what Carwood might do. Apparently, however, he _should have been worried about Winters._ He’d obviously underestimated Winters’ attachment to the vampire. Carwood had said they’d been fighting, and so Ron had thought that he might be able to get away with attacking the undead bastard, but…well, that’d been the mistake. Ron knew better now. He knew to watch out for Winters. So, whatever Ron’s play was once he reached the surface, he knew he’d have to avoid that particular hunter. Because Ron couldn’t simply _kill_ him. Carwood wouldn’t forgive him for that, and wasn’t that the point of crawling out of Hell again?

Ironically, the vampire did give Ron some hope, in a strange, round-about kind of way. After all, if a hunter like Dick Winters could find himself caring for a vampire—despite everything that being a vampire meant—maybe Carwood could find it in himself to care for Ron still, after learning what _he_ really was, too. Would Carwood’s inherent goodness swing in Ron’s favor, or would Ron’s true nature repulse the pure-hearted hunter? 

Ron intended to find out, just as soon as he was done scaling this cliff.

* * *

The farmhouse was dark, still. No sign of movement within. The wards were strong as ever. (In fact, they were the strongest wards that Ron had ever encountered, and they both frustrated and impressed him. He wanted to hunt down whoever had crafted them and interrogate them. He wasn’t sure yet whether he’d kill the obviously powerful witch, or try to recruit them. Either way, that was on Ron’s list of things to do, once he located Carwood.)

Frowning at the dark house, Ron waited for a sign of life. He waited for hours, but nothing changed. Feeling his frustration bubble to the surface, Ron punched the barrier and it shook, the power within it quivering, but it remained as solid as it always had been. A quality piece of work that nevertheless pissed him right off. He punched it again, and again. No movement stirred from within the house. Ron squinted and made his way around the wards again, fingers idly trailing—always, always looking for a weak spot, a way in. 

The Jeep was gone. Ron frowned. No one was home.

* * *

He spent two days looking for Carwood, but he wasn’t in any of his usual haunts. Ron had even ventured close to the hunter bar, Currahee, to see if he might catch a glimpse of the man, but he wasn’t there, either. Just a swirling mess of _agitation, frustration, paranoia, and the urge to purge the world of darkness_. Ron rolled his eyes. Hunters could be so endlessly predictable sometimes, with their holier than thou attitudes. But Carwood…Carwood had been an exception to that rule.

Beautiful, pure, loving Carwood. Soft, strong, sexy Carwood. Carwood, who always saw the best in people, even when there was very little good to see. Carwood, who had been hurt over and over in his life, and still found a way to connect with people. Carwood, who Ron had hurt without meaning to. Carwood, who seemed to have vanished into thin air in the span of Ron’s time in Hell.

Ron might’ve been able to track down Dick Winters, or that vampire Lewis Nixon, but he decided it wasn’t worth the potential _additional_ trip to the Basement. So he decided to steer clear instead. Besides, Ron had another bone to pick while he had some time on his hands.

* * *

Ron hated Chicago. He always had. It was a dirty, under-handed city that liked to put on airs and pretend that it was better than it was because of the lingering glitz and glam of its heyday. Ron cared little for its soaring buildings or wealth. They meant nothing to a creature like him. Ron smirked, remembering lyrics he’d heard a teenage girl blasting on the subway one time: _I don’t want your money, I don’t want your crown, See I’ve come to burn your kingdom down._ He’d found the song later and smirked at the title. There was a lot about humans that often left Ron wanting, but occasionally their poetry was profound. He rather liked that song.

Unlike the New York vampires that made at least a passing effort to blend in, the Chicago coven didn’t bother. They made a game of flaunting their wealth and positions, and it was easy to find them uptown. 

It was just past 1:00 am when Ron was waved into the lobby of the Rey Nuit hotel, the vampiric door-men casting him wary glances, but not daring to hold him. Ron was well-known in these parts. 

While he waited, he wandered the lobby, appreciating, at least, the solid mahogany furniture, and the gold, sapphire, and ruby decorations. Ron much preferred the interior of this building to the flashy glass exterior. But vampires were always flashy—they couldn’t seem to help themselves. 

One or two humans milled through the lobby, making their way to or from the bar, waiting to meet up with their nightly escorts. The Rey made very little pretense—this place was owned, run, and occupied by vampires. Important creatures the world over came here to deal with them, and to rub elbows if they could. Humans came for the pleasure of being feasted upon, with the hope that they might be turned and inducted into this rather exclusive club. Ron sneered at the whole thing. 

“Mr. Speirs.” One of the suited vampiric body guards approached Ron, and beckoned him toward the private elevator. “The Family is ready to see you now, sir.”

“Thank you,” Ron murmured, following the vampire into the elevator. The Family was a euphemism for the elder vampire council that fancied they ran Chicago—they were an old coven, but still babies compared to Ron, and he was often amazed at their hubris. 

Ron folded his hands in front of himself and waited patiently as the elevator ascended to the penthouse, where The Family enjoyed conducting their business, enshrouded by the obvious signs of their wealth. The vampire next to him was obviously nervous, but well-trained, and he showed little sign of his feelings. Ron appreciated that. When the elevator opened, he was escorted into a formal den, where the most powerful of Chicago’s coven awaited him. 

Anne-Marie, draped in a scarlet Valentino gown, lounged, with one leg balanced on the arm of a leather seat. Beside her, her paramour, Francisco, always formal in an Armani suit, sat with his hands folded in his lap. Behind him, Lucas pretended not to care, his gaze cast broodingly toward the fireplace. And Olivia, the most matronly of the vampires, perched on her own settee, a look of absolute patience on her face.

“Mr. Speirs,” Francisco said, beckoning Ron forward. “It is good to see you. It has been a while.”

“Francisco,” Ron acknowledged.

“I have been troubled by reports of your activities, my friend.”

Anne-Marie snorted and raised herself so that she could glare at Ron. “Why isn’t he _dead yet,_ demon?” She waved her had dismissively. “Isn’t that what we hired you for? To kill that…that… _vermin?_ ”

Ron quirked a single brow. “You’re referring to the hunter Carwood Lipton?”

“Who else would I be talking about? Are there any other contracts you’ve left open? We’ve paid you handsomely, Speirs. We expect you to deliver.”

“Please forgive Anne-Marie’s outburst,” Francisco said, casting his lover an admonishing look. “She has a personal interest in this particular hunter.”

“He killed my favorite protégé!” Anne-Marie hissed. “If it weren’t beneath me, I would’ve snatched his heart from his chest myself.”

Ron fixed her with his hazel gaze. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. But it wouldn’t do, would it? Me, lowering myself to a—a common hunter. It might encourage others.”

“We would just like an assurance that you are still in pursuit of the hunter,” Francisco said. 

“I still hold his contract,” Ron assured them, “so, yes.”

“Forgive me,” Olivia said, suddenly, “but it does not normally take you this long to fulfill a contract, Mr. Speirs. That is why we do business with you. So why is this particular case different?”

Ron smiled, softly, thinking about Carwood. “Everything about this case is different.” He met Olivia’s eyes, then cast his glance to each of the others, making eye contact, before he added “Carwood Lipton will live. He is not to be touched.”

Anne-Marie frowned, and shoved herself to her feet, her hands balled into fists, her face petulant. “What are you talking about?” She snarled. “You said you’d kill him!”

Ron shrugged noncommittally. “I changed my mind.”

When Anne-Marie hauled back to slap him, Ron caught her hand easily. He cast an appreciative glance at her sharp scarlet nails, before he channeled his energy up through his hand, and into hers, and watched, unperturbed, as her whole body lit up, her eyes flashed gold, and then she dropped, empty, at his feet. 

The room roared to life then, and the vampires shouted, scrambling, lurching to get away from him. But there was nowhere for them to go, no need for Ron to worry about fragile human casualties. So Ron pursued them, one at a time, and grasped their meager lives in his hands before he burned them out. _One. After. The. Other._

The bodyguard frantically pressed at the elevator buttons, but Ron got to him before the elevator could, and he burned him out as well.

After that, it was easy. Ron made his way down through the hotel, one floor, one wing, one room, at a time, and he laid waste to the Chicago coven.

As the sun rose over the gleaming spires of the city, Ron emerged from the hotel, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders from the night’s efforts. 

This kingdom had fallen easily. Chicago would no longer hound the hunter, or Ron.

Ron shoved his hands in his suit pockets and made his way casually toward the downtown. He could really do with a coffee, after all that.

And then, on to find Carwood.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments make my day and encourage me to keep writing. Please let me know what you think! Also, feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.
> 
> Btw, if you didn't know, Ron's Chicago theme song is "Seven Devils" by Florence + the Machine :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Spark(itt)y and the gift of dead critters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964449) by [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/pseuds/Lysel)
  * [Evening the score](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21015077) by [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/pseuds/Lysel)




End file.
